Loud

  Roger was making a quick circuit around the found ship. Two ships and two crews on an out-of-the-way moon — that was wrong on all sorts of levels. This ship wasn’t just salvage — it was a question mark. And Roger hated question marks.

  Unlike Annalynn, if he encountered another crew, he would just wipe them out. Shoot first and send flowers later.

  It wasn’t the nice way of doing things, but it worked. If a force was friendly, they needed to make that clear. Any search-and-rescue team would be broadcasting their location.

  If it was a government force, they’d be in uniform. If they were government but not in uniform, then they’d be good enough that Roger couldn’t just kill them.

  His job was to protect the crew, not make friends. That was what Annalynn and Sarsha were good at.

  Moving quickly and quietly, he completed his circuit. He didn’t see anything, and he made sure to cycle through his visual spectrum. The back ramp was still down, the ship dark. He could hear pounding from just inside the loading bay.

  Walking over, he found Zev hammering at a stuck door. The tool was too small for his hands, and he kept rapping his knuckles on the frame. If Zev was reduced to using a hammer, then things hadn’t gone as planned.

  Roger made noise as he came up the ramp, stopping just behind him. Without turning, the big man said, “Good. This door’s stuck and the gears are junked up. Maybe ya can force it open. I can’t get a good position.”

  Zev stepped aside. Roger slid into the doorframe sideways, braced his back, and shoved. At first nothing happened. He pushed again, this time using his enhanced strength, and the door itself began to bend.

  “Damn it,” Zev snarled, kicking the door. Something inside the mechanism snapped. The frame tore free of its socket and went tumbling into the ship.

  “Good thing we aren’t tryin’ to fly this thing out of here,” Zev said, voice low and menacing.

  “I guess that was an airlock door?” Roger asked as he stepped inside. The hallway was dark, the ship unnervingly still. The air hung heavy with dread.

  “Ya. The inner airlock. Those things almost never break. If we’ve got time, I want to look at it.” Zev joined him past the threshold. “I couldn’t find any power source when I was here before. I’m hopin’ you can trace the lines.”

  “The ship was dark when I first got here. Almost like it was in lockdown mode.”

  “Do you at least know where their reactor is?” Zev asked, scanning the hallway. The walls were grimy, the floors scuffed — as if the shattered door hadn’t already screamed bad maintenance. And to make matters worse, the air handlers were done.

  “I think so. You have a light?” Roger glanced back.

  “Ya. I left it with the cutter the first time through. Damn thing’s heavy.” Zev sounded tired. It was still early morning, but he’d already been through a lot. He pressed the button and the light sprang to life.

  Zev kept the beam pointed at the floor, careful not to wash out Roger’s low-light sight. His shoulders were tight, his movements heavy. If the big man had his way, Roger figured, he’d probably blast the whole ship to pieces rather than set foot inside.

  Roger led the way. They went slow, checked corners, moved carefully where hallways met. Even at that pace, it didn’t take long to reach the reactor room.

  “What are the chances the shielding is down and we both get a lethal dose of radiation?” Zev asked, standing beside Roger at the closed, locked door.

  “I’ll be fine. If the dose is big enough to kill me, this moon will have a new crater,” Roger replied. He pried off the control panel next to the door. The panel still had emergency power running to it. “The panel’s still powered.”

  “What? Don’t touch anything.” Zev stepped closer, scanning the exposed wiring. The hair on his arms bristled as he leaned in. “This panel shouldn’t have power. The emergency release is on the other side of the door.” He tapped a panel with his boot.

  “Roger, do you see any thermal signatures around here?” Zev glanced left and right as he eased back from the door.

  “There’s a heat spike right above it. Faint — I missed it the first time.” Roger backed away too.

  “Ya, this is a trap. Whoever set it up knew what they were doing. Most people try to bypass a lock by shorting the panel. It’s what you’re trained to do.”

  “We need to leave. Now.” Roger’s tone left no room for interpretation. They pulled out fast, moving through the corridors as quickly as they could.

  Back at the loading bay, Roger drew Zev aside. In a low whisper he said, “This whole ship’s a trap. That door—” he pointed at the missing airlock “—was supposed to snap shut and lock us in. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t? It’s not a bad trap,” Zev said, eyeing the frame.

  “It’s too good for the crews we’ve run into. Think about it. Would your squad have been taken out by a mine?”

  “No. We’d have been spread out.” Zev’s face lit up. “These guys suck too much to set a trap like this.” His voice rose with excitement, forgetting noise discipline.

  Roger lifted a hand. “Lower your voice.” He stepped back from Zev and moved to the open ramp, shifting his weight until he could see the tree line. It was clear; nothing showed on the horizon.

  Zev stayed back, careful not to bunch up. He snapped his rifle to full length, barrel and stock clicking into place.

  “Load heavy rounds. Be ready to lay down suppressing fire. I think I see a dropship coming in,” Roger whispered, his voice even — like a man on a walk, not one about to start a firefight.

  “You want me to hit the ship? High-velocity rounds do more damage.” Zev’s voice was flat, practical. His rifle could take different loads: high-speed rounds tore through metal, heavy rounds punched and dug — good for cracking armor or cratering the ground near ones captain.

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  “They’re coming in low and fast. This must be the real team. I want to talk to one of them. Hit the ship — I’ll try to get in close. Keep their heads down. How many rounds do you have?”

  Zev gave a low chuckle Roger could feel more than hear. “How many rounds do I have? Like you don’t know me.”

  Roger spared a glance back. Zev’s grin softened into something close to wounded pride. Suppression rounds were light — Zev probably carried thousands. Zev caught Roger’s look, lifted a hand, and flashed four fingers twice: four high-velocity rounds, four heavy. Then he turned his hand sideways and held up four fingers again — four thousand suppression rounds.

  “Charge up and take the shot,” Roger ordered as he broke for the tree line, moving far faster than any human had a right to. He knew how Zev operated.

  By the time he hit cover fifty feet away, he heard the crack of the railcannon and the thunder of impact against energy shields. Looking up, he saw the dropship lurch violently. The heavy round hadn’t pierced their shields.

  He hadn’t expected it to — he just needed the pilot off balance. The controls would take all their focus now, and the drop troops had two choices: jump early or risk riding a crashing ship. Roger already knew what he’d choose.

  The rear bay yawned open. Figures spilled out, tumbling against the air currents. After a dozen or so had jumped, the ship pulled hard and lit its thrusters, clawing back control.

  Fire streaked across the sky toward the falling figures. Zev had opened up with suppression rounds.

  Roger counted to three, then sprinted from cover. After two seconds he hit the dirt, a line of fire smashing into the ground seventy-five feet ahead of him.

  Three more seconds. Roger sprang up and charged again, legs pumping. Two seconds of movement, then another dive into the dirt.

  Zev kept the rhythm steady—three-second bursts, then reposition, then fire again. The cycle kept his rifle from overheating and gave Roger the gaps he needed to advance.

  By the third gap, Roger had closed the distance. Firing on the move, he tagged a trooper. His armor was pitch black, smooth on the shoulders and around the waist. His legs were encased in the same plating — this stuff was expensive.

  The man’s armor shimmered, glowing faintly as the first rounds struck. The glow brightened, then flickered out — shields gone.

  Roger kept his fire tight, hammering the same spot. The armor began to smoke. A second later, his rounds burned through, punching clean through the man’s chest.

  The rest of the soldiers were still shaking off the rapid jump and Zev’s constant pounding. Most had dropped into poor cover, scrambling to regain their footing.

  Roger dodged left, rolled behind a tree — just as Zev opened up again. Suppression fire tore the clearing apart. The ground erupted, trees shredded, trunks splintered. Leaves ripped to pieces, branches left bare.

  Swinging around the trunk, Roger advanced, rifle spitting death. The opposing force fired back — trained bursts, but still ragged. Enough to drive him into cover. They were regaining cohesion.

  Ducking behind a tree, Roger pulled a pistol from his belt and fired at the ground near one of the shooters. A flare streaked out and burst in a red-orange explosion.

  Rolling back the way he’d come, he kept his rifle hot, circling as he laid down fire. Seconds later, the ground near his flare erupted, followed by the boom of impact and the delayed crack of the round.

  He knew these guys would win a firefight. Even now they were regrouping; most of them were clear of the blast. He had to close the distance and engage hand-to-hand. Hopefully they wouldn’t shoot at each other — or him by extension. With a final sweep, he charged.

  The first man was still prone, Roger hammered the butt of his rifle against the back of his neck, making sure he would never rise.

  Using the momentum, Roger rolled right and tackled another around the legs. With superhuman strength he bulled the man over, rolled on top of him, leveled his rifle, and fired into his throat.

  Rushing forward, he raised his rifle and fired into the helmet of the next trooper. The man dropped before his shield failed. Roger took one more step and jumped onto the man’s chest. Using both feet, he stomped on the man’s armor, breaking the bones underneath.

  Instead of jumping up, Roger rolled right to avoid incoming fire. He scrambled around a tree as Zev lit up the line of remaining enemies. Rounds cracked close, some chewing into the small tree he used for cover. The assault dragged like days, then ended as abruptly as it began.

  Grabbing the tree, Roger flung himself up and at the last man in the squad.

  He was on him before the man had raised his head. Roger reached down with his left hand and hooked under the armor’s shoulder, dragging the man backward and up.

  Planting his feet, Roger snaked his arm around the guy’s throat. He swung his rifle around the man’s hip and poured fire into the rest of the group. Roger hoped Zev caught the direction of his fire.

  “No return fire came at Roger and his new friend. He spotted the rest in cover, lining up a shot. The man’s shields must still be up. Good. He dragged the unlucky trooper backward toward a dense set of trees.

  A blinding flash was his only warning — the railcannon round struck, igniting a fusion flare bright as a newborn sun. The shockwave hit an instant later, hurling Roger and the trooper to the ground. The man recovered first, driving a knee into Roger’s head.

  Roger’s vision burst white. Another impact smashed into his face. Acting on instinct, he brought his hands up to protect himself.

  The soldier’s fist crashed into his ribs. Something cracked — his, most likely.

  Roger snatched the back of the man’s neck and dragged him down. Planting his left foot on the man’s hip, he angled his body out, hooked the man’s left shoulder, and pulled himself around to his back.

  He was fighting to get his arm around the man’s neck when pain tore through his thigh. He looked down and saw a knife sticking out.

  Roger abandoned the choke hold, wrenched his friend’s arm back, and swung his leg over the man’s head. He trapped the arm across his hips and chest, locked the wrist, and drove his hips up. A sharp snap came first, followed by a short scream — the knife dropped from limp fingers.

  Letting go of the arm, Roger scrambled on top of the man. He grabbed the knife and, with his left knee braced beside the man’s head, pressed the blade to his throat.”

  ‘Who are you with?” he growled, eyes burning into the faceplate of the helmet. “Try anything and you die.”

  “That won’t help you. We will find you.” With the the man reached for his chest.

  Without hesitation, Roger slashed the knife across the man’s throat. The fabric resisted at first, then gave under his enhanced strength. The helmet’s faceplate fogged once, then went still.

  With his other hand, he clamped the man’s wrist, stopping him from pulling the pin.

  ‘Fuck!’ Roger shouted. Carefully, he pried the hand off the grenade. It wasn’t armed, but he hurled it far into the trees; no reason to take chances.

  This wasn’t what he wanted. He needed to talk to one of them — find out who the hell was hunting them. A rapid scan confirmed no one else was coming. Roger stripped the body of its gear.

  Task finished, he took stock. The gear was high-quality, with no identifying insignia. That tracked with what they’d seen so far. Whoever was behind this was good — no tells, no slip-ups. Roger hated playing games in the dark. And right now, he was blind.

  There was no point in taking any of the gear. None of the crew could use it, and most of it was probably traceable. He did pull the power source from the discarded weapon — that, at least, might tell them where it was made.

  The rumble of engines made him look up. The dropship had returned, its forward turrets glowing with energy.

  Roger sprinted for better cover. He knew it wouldn’t help — those cannons would rip the forest apart. His only chance was if they didn’t see him. And since they’d already started firing, they had.

  Roger’s world turned to fire and explosions. The turrets shredded everything in their path. Trees hit became flaming shrapnel. Burning fragments tore into his arms. Then pain seared his right side — a three-foot length of flaming wood jutted from his bicep.

  Roger buried his head in the dirt, making himself as small as possible. Flaming debris rained down. He endured it, arm throbbing, lungs struggling to pull in enough oxygen from the searing hot air.

  ‘Damn it, Zev — where the fuck are you?’ He meant it as a last roar of defiance.

  Suddenly the blazing death stopped. Roger didn’t waste the few precious seconds he had. He dashed forward, hoping to get below their field of fire. After a dozen paces, he risked a look up.

  What he saw stopped him cold. The ship was gone — in its place bloomed a fireball. A brilliant line of fire traced back to the trap ship. Zev had fired.

  “Good shot.”